


Crimson

by titC



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: 5+1, Detective Mahoney is D O N E, F/M, Gen, Reveals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-06-25 23:07:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19755616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/titC/pseuds/titC
Summary: For a blind guy, Matt Murdock had quite the fixation on the color red.





	Crimson

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mangovandium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mangovandium/gifts).



> From LemonChomps' prompt Crimson.
> 
> Thank you to [PixelByPixel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PixelByPixel) for the beta!  
> For my [DaredevilBingo](http://daredevilbingo.dreamwidth.org/) prompt _spar_ and my [MattElektraBingo](https://mattelektrabingo.tumblr.com/) one _into the ring_.  
> Both prompts gave me the final scene, and then... fic!

For a blind guy, Matt Murdock had quite the fixation on the color red. Brett wasn’t quite sure how that worked, but he’d never dared ask.

 _Hey man, what’s with the obsession with a thing you can’t see anyway? How do you_ know _it’s red?_

Nah.

But, since the first day Foggy had dragged Mr. Charm home to his parents, Brett had almost always seen him wear red, to the point that when he didn’t Brett had started to assume he was wearing red underwear because there _had_ to be something red somewhere. A flash of red at the ankles, the single, dark red, tie he had for formal occasions in law school, red sneakers, a burgundy belt… and then the cane, of course. White with the red bit, kept close to the body when he was standing or held out in front of him when walking.

Brett had seen him in action quite a few times over the years. Standing up, unfolding this cane, not-looking at the jury, and then the game was on. His dad had been a boxer, pummeling his opponents until victory; Murdock the Younger was doing the same except not on a ring, but in a court of justice. He’d seen him in the precinct too, getting his client out while other cops tried to intimidate him. Intimidation never worked, of course.

Those damn, brash, red glasses had to be part of it. They were not your average _Oh I’m blind_ accessory, not like the ones he had in college. They said _I can’t see a thing and I’m still going to win_ , or maybe _I’m blind and I’m bold and I’m out for blood_.

Surprisingly enough, they didn’t diminish Murdock’s _Aw, shucks_ superpower either. Foggy’s mom had immediately decided he needed to be fed, Brett’s own ma adored him, and Foggy swore up and down that beautiful women always flocked to him. The asshole was good-looking, and when he flashed his pearly whites with his cane held close to his chest… he even had a tragic yet heroic backstory, it was positively disgusting. Foggy called it Matt’s handsome wounded duck vibe, and Brett had to agree. The words fit.

They fit even better when said duck had some unfortunate encounter with a mugger, a car, or the occasional simple door, and for a couple of weeks he walked (or limped) around with a big red bruise on his face that did absolutely nothing to make him less handsome. (Not that Brett was jealous, of course.) These encounters had been almost non-existent for years, but for some reason Murdock was now unable to remain injury-free for more than 3 weeks, a month tops. Brett had tried to ask him about it and was met with a wall, and Foggy hadn’t been much more forthcoming; hopefully it wasn’t some sort of abusive relationship happening under their noses. Brett had witnessed the damage one of those could inflict on the people he met on the job, and while Murdock was a little shit of the first order _and_ a lawyer to boot he didn’t deserve anyone beating him up or literally throwing him under buses.

For some reason, this red-loving blind asshole had never been rescued by their local, formerly red-wearing, masked vigilante – or at least not that Brett knew of. That was a bit surprising; Mr Horns was big on helping everyone, although preferably in the Kitchen. A blind lawyer who kept being beat up was an anomaly. But maybe they had beef? They’d worked together on both Fisk cases, could be they’d clashed? Brett should ask Foggy; he’d know. Hopefully, he’d be more forthcoming about that than about his partner’s black eyes and split lips.

* * *

The first time she’d seen Jack, his face was already swollen from the blows he’d taken. At the end of the fight it hadn’t gotten any better, and the day after it was even worse. But Maggie hadn’t minded too much, and in a short time it had become normal to her. Jack had spent so much time at the gym and around other boxers, bruises and red knuckles had been a given. There always was ice in the freezer for when he’d gone too long on the heavy bag or for when he’d gotten a fist in the face; it was just how it was. Men’s skin, for her, was never pristine. It was many colors, it was darkened by the blood pooling under it, it was puffy and tender to the touch.

Then, after she’d left, there had been the children. The boys roughhoused, they scraped their knees and sometimes even broke a bone. Matthew, because he was blind, had been left alone at first. Then the old man came, and Matthew was often black and blue too then; but he was also so much happier. They all figured the old man was doing something right.

After he left, Matthew never had the smallest bruise. Other kids did, sometimes. Everyone knew it was Matthew who fought the bullies, but no one ever dared say it loud out. They were all too ashamed of being beaten by the blind kid with the glasses.

So Matthew, for a while, was the one kid who never, ever got hurt. Not where they could see, anyway.

When he left St Agnes, she did her best to leave him be. She wanted to know what he did, how he was faring, if he was happy. She wanted to know if he’d found a nice girl to settle with, if his studies were going well. What he looked like as he matured. She wanted to, but she had no right. She’d renounced that right long ago, and she had a duty to all the children in the orphanage. She couldn't show a preference. She heard his name a few times, associated with big trials. She learned he was a lawyer now, and once or twice saw his picture in a newspaper someone had left in the church; but she didn’t cut the photos out, didn’t keep the articles. She hadn’t been his mother in almost as long as he’d been alive.

And then Paul had brought a broken, so terribly broken body; he’d said that was Jack’s son and Maggie felt her insides collapse and her face freeze. Jack’s son was _her son_. Lying on the infirmary bed, he didn’t look like the attorney in the articles; he was, frankly, unrecognizable. His face was a mess, worse than Jack’s after a bad fight; and the rest of his body… She’d wanted to send him to a hospital anyway, even if it meant he’d end up in prison. At least it would have given him much better odds of survival, of recovery. But Paul knew him well and he’d said no.

“Maggie, you know what he does would get him thrown in jail. All he’s done as a lawyer would be jeopardized, too.”

“But he’d get better care,” she’d pointed out. “Look at what we have here! Gauze, suture kits, and Band-Aids. He’ll never recover.”

“He’d never even survive to see his trial. All the people he fought as either lawyer or vigilante will try to go after him while he can’t defend himself. You know it. You know he’s safer here, hidden away.” She’d wanted to protest some more, but Paul had just added, “We owe him, Maggie. You and I, we owe him.”

So, Matthew stayed.

The red bruises turned purple, green, yellow; with time, they healed. The open wounds bled sluggishly for too long, as if his body didn’t want to knit itself back together. Sometimes, when he jerked out of unconsciousness, he’d fight invisible enemies. He’d cry out and sometimes just cry; he’d call for that woman, he’d try to catch her, he’d fall of the bed trying to follow her. The wounds would reopen, and Maggie would stitch them back up again. She could do nothing for the pain in his soul.

Maggie would never have imagined she’d ever see so much of her baby’s blood. If she’d known back then how much he’d suffer and bleed, she might have gone through with her suicidal impulses. She wouldn't have been able to cope with the idea she’d given life to a child meant to bleed so much.

And little by little, as he recovered, she saw more and more of Jack in him. He was stubborn and cocky, he had no sense of self-preservation, he could hit the bag for hours. No one at the gym had been as hard-working as Jack; and she knew after she’d left he’d worked even harder to provide for their son.

She saw a lot of herself, too: the disregard for rules and expectations, the mood swings that brought him so high and then so low. The devouring faith that was both sustenance and pain, that came from her too. Her faith wasn’t like Jack’s mother’s faith. Hers had been a steady warmth, clear rules that she had lived her life by. Maggie’s faith… was something else. She wished she’d given Matthew something better, but he was their son through and through.

One day, he invited her to his apartment and showed her the red robe Jack had worn for his last fight. Matthew himself had never seen it, of course; it had been after the accident. He had been very stoic when he got the chest out from the cupboard, when he first took his vigilante gear out before gently lifting the robe and handing it to her.

Maggie hadn’t been. To see how his father's memory was still so strong in him, how it was so closely interwoven in his life… To see him run careful hands over the cheap, still shiny fabric, over the stitched letters. _Battlin’ Jack Murdock_. Matthew probably was aware of her tears, but he never mentioned them. She suspected he’d cried a lot over it himself, through the years.

The red robe, and the red gloves. The red bruises, the red blood.

The long-dead love of her life, and their death-defying son.

She prayed he’d find peace one day.

* * *

Red talked big about God and redemption, said he was fighting for a better city, but Red didn’t know anything about war or peace. Frank himself had forgotten what peace meant; he only knew war. He was pretty sure Red wouldn't even know peace if it punched him in the face.

After coming back to New York, Frank heard about him again, about the real Daredevil being back. He wondered what it was all about, so he looked it up. Turned out after the last time he’d seen him on that warehouse holding his girl and then avenging her death, altar boy had been up to a lot.

He’d put away the Halloween suit, gone into defending the people of his beloved Kitchen in courts only. It looked like he’d done some good, too. Not that Frank put much faith in justice and the law, but Murdock did. There had been a brief reappearance of the horny suit and of the, in fact, not quite dead girlfriend before both were lost under a collapsed building, and then nothing for months. Nothing, until a Fisk-guided killer dressed in the Devil’s suit started leaving a trail of corpses behind him and finally Murdock, both as a lawyer and as a vigilante, came back. Frank wished he’d been there. He’d promised Fisk he’d get him, and it had been Red who’d finally taken him down again. He didn’t pick up the Kevlar again, though. Combat boots and rope, like a dumbass _asking_ to be shot and stabbed.

Frank couldn’t believe people had never guessed his identity, what with Red’s eyes being hidden, his ties with his own law practice, his obvious boxing background, and his habit of lurking on churches’ roofs. Oh and, of course, his love of red. When researching Red he found his first look, black with a red seam, that he’d worn before he got the fancy themed one. There wasn’t anything red that he could see in the latest version, which was a bit surprising; but maybe he was in mourning. Frank had heard about the fake Daredevil killing a priest in the middle of mass; that can’t have sat right with Red.

Well, many things didn’t sit right with him. What _Frank_ did didn’t sit right with him, but Frank did it anyway. Didn’t care how Red felt about it. Since fate wanted him to fully embrace his Punisher self he would, without remorse or self-doubt. It would probably mean he’d cross paths with the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen again, sooner or later.

Turned out it was sooner.

Frank had convinced Turk to rat out some of his crack-dealing buddies in the drug business, but when he got to their hideout he found out they must have made allies above their pay grade. There were more goons than there should have been, even though half of them didn’t know how to use their guns, but they were all armed – and that made them even more dangerous in some ways. He knew he should retreat and work on a new plan of attack, but Frank didn’t always do what he should.

This time, however, a third option presented itself. Right as he was trying to see how he could do the most damage with what ammo he had left, there was a crash on the other end of the building. He peeked out from behind the crate he was using as cover and couldn't help a low whistle. Someone was going full Enter The Dragon on the goons, and none of them managed to hit him – no, her; it was a woman. It was _Red’s_ woman. Guess death really didn’t want her. She was slight, fast, and deadly; she kicked firearms away and bashed heads together, she jumped from a wall to a shoulder to the top of a crate, and she was using some sort of blades… sai. She was using sai. Nothing seemed to touch her, not the bullets and not the knives, and she was clearly enjoying herself. Her smile looked as dangerous as her weapons.

Frank just let her go through them. If hell had kicked her out, it would certainly welcome her offering. In a few minutes she’d killed or maimed all the assholes and she stood there grinning and panting in the middle of the floor, her teeth very white against her black hair and the goons’ red blood. It matched her black and red outfit. Guess she had a brand, too. He was about to say hi when Murdock himself jumped down behind her from a catwalk.

“Elektra,” he whispered.

She didn’t turn around. “You’ve been following me for a while.”

“Are you… how did you…” He took a few steps closer and his hand hovered but never landed on her shoulder.

“Like you did, I imagine.” She faced him, finally. “I didn’t think you’d survived. If I had known…” For the first time, Frank saw an emotion on her face that wasn’t either murderous glee or smug confidence.

“You’re here,” he said after a while. Red took off his cloth mask and now Frank could see his whole face. He wondered if Murdock wasn’t using a mask less to hide his identity than to hide the emotions he wore so close to the surface. He seemed to be having many of them right about now.

“Why did you kill them all?”

“Not all, Matthew; don’t be so dramatic. They used to work for the Hand.”

“They were just hired muscle; they never had anything to do with what happened to you.”

She scoffed then pointed straight to where Frank was hiding. “What about the big guy there? He’s not like the others.”

Shit, she’d made him.

“Oh, that’s Frank.”

Fine, _they’d_ made him. All right then, he’d get out into the open.

“Thought I’d let you handle them. Didn’t look like you needed any help,” Frank said.

“You’d made a decent dent in their numbers before I arrived.”

Why, thank you ma’am. “That why you didn’t come after me?”

She shrugged and wiped her sai before sliding them into thigh holsters.

Red’s head turned in his direction. “It’s been a while, Frank.”

“Yeah. Saw you got Fisk again. Good job.”

“You’re not telling me I should have killed him?”

“ _I’d_ have killed him. You…” Frank sighed. Red wasn’t a killer; he never went after someone with their death in his heart. He shouldn’t ever cross that line.

“I would,” Elektra said. “You would, I would; but it’s not Matthew.”

“Ganging up on me, are we?” But God, Murdock was smiling like a kid at Christmas. When she took his rope-covered hand he beamed right at her and it didn’t look like she was immune, because the way she looked at him…

Frank saw he was intruding on something there, and he knew better than to stay.

“See you two kids around, then.” He wasn’t sure they even heard him.

Frank left before they got into the really sappy stuff. He wished them well.

* * *

Matt came to work with a suspicious spring in his step on Monday morning, and Foggy and Karen exchanged a glance. They tried to act normal so he wouldn’t pick up on their eyebrow conversation, unless he could somehow sense it – hopefully he couldn’t. Happy Matt should be a cause of rejoicing, not suspicion, but Foggy knew better than to trust it blindly (pun intended, Matt’s terrible influence no doubt) by now. Well, at least he wasn’t sporting a fresh bruise or scrape on his face, limping, or holding his side; they wouldn't have to find yet another flimsy excuse for that.

Still, after Karen tried and failed to get him to talk after plying him with the baked goods and coffees she’d brought to the office (her turn on Mondays), Foggy decided he’d try to get to the bottom of it himself. Once Karen had left for her weekly lunch with Ellison he went into Matt’s office, crossed his arms and waited. Matt couldn't ignore him for long.

“Yes, Foggy,” he finally said, leaning back in his chair and loosening his tie. “Anything on your mind?”

“Oh yes, actually, now that you ask.” Matt’s lips quirked up. He somehow wasn’t fooled by Foggy’s act, as inconceivable as it was. “You’ve been particularly chipper all morning, anything you want to share with the class?”

Matt made a show of turning his head left and right as if checking where the rest of the class could be. Jerk. “Can’t I just be happy?”

That deserved Foggy’s best snort. “Come on, buddy. I can’t see a single bruise, you’re smiling when you think no one can see you, you’re not even wincing when you move. Sad as it is, it’s not your normal.”

This time Matt laughed, his head thrown back a little like he used to in college. Hey, what was that – “My normal is being a wreck?”

“Yes, it is. Not that I like it, but it absolutely is.” Foggy walked around Matt’s desk and put a hand on the worn wood. “Don’t move, Matty.”

“O… kay?”

Oh yes, he could look surprised, eyebrows raised and head a little to the side. He could, because Foggy was reaching out to open the first two buttons on Matt’s shirt and looking at his skin and – yup. “Right, thought I just saw something like that. Matt, are you aware you’ve got scratch marks on your chest?”

“Um.” That wasn’t a no. “Scratch marks?”

“Scratch marks. Four parallel, red lines; spacing consistent with a human hand on the smaller side, probably a woman’s.” Foggy could play detective if he wanted to. “Anything you want to tell me?”

“…no?”

“If you’re going to say that you don’t kiss and tell, I feel compelled to point out that there was clearly more than kissing there. Are you suing for assault?”

“Er, not assault, no.” Fidgeting. There was actual fidgeting and squirming happening now. Aha, there was a _story_ there. Something juicy, and maybe a some _one_ that would keep him off the streets more often at night. All good in Foggy’s books, as long as scratching was the worst they got up to.

“Because, Matty, I don’t remember you being much into sex that leaves marks, unless that time with – oh no.” Foggy’s brain stalled. Oh, _no_.

“Foggy? Fogs? You, um, you’ve gone all silent.”

“Yeah. No. Matt. Matty, please.”

“Please what?”

Foggy took a deep breath. Time to ask the big question, get a negative answer, and have it out of the way. He’d feel better afterwards. “Is she back? Elektra?”

And, crap, Matt immediately closed off. Oh, shit indeed; it _was_ her. It was Elektra.

“As your partner, attorney and friend, Matt. I have to ask – _What the fuck?_ ”

“Foggy.” He went from closed off to, frankly, mulish. “Not your business.”

“It is! Matt, please. She’s hurt you every time she came back into your life, she even got you almost killed once, and to this day we still don’t know how you survived! She helped destroy our first firm, she left you a wreck in college and it took you months to recover, she… Not again, Matt. You said she wasn’t even really herself anymore, the last time you – the last time. I know she’s gorgeous but... hell, man, you’re blind. Why not pick inner beauty instead?”

“She didn’t have a choice before. I understand your concerns, but things are different now.” Matt tried to stand up but Foggy leaned on the armrests and boxed him in. “Fogs, let me go.”

“Look, I don’t trust your judgment around her. I’m sorry, but I don’t.” He didn’t know how to get it through Matt’s thick skull. “Even if she didn’t mean to, the fact is she _did_. She hurt you and the people around you. She even killed your… coach? trainer? mentor?”

“Stick wasn’t ever going to die peacefully in bed.”

“That’s what I’d like for you, though: dying in bed at a ripe old age. Even if you’re determined not to.”

“Fogs…”

“I know; your choice, your life. I’m … not exactly okay with it but I respect that it’s part of you, I swear. But I’m scared for you because you’re my friend. I don’t want to lose you, not again.” Foggy stood back up and leaned against the desk. He doubted Matt could really, truly accept or even understand that people worried for him, but he had to say it again and again. Maybe it would sink in if he kept at it?

“She’s helping me.”

“What?”

“She’s helping me. That’s why I’m _not even wincing_ , as you said.”

Foggy sighed. “She’s helping you.”

“That’s what I said.”

What was he supposed to do with that? Elektra Natchios, on the side of the angels? Hah, as if Matt himself was an angel. Yep, the idea that she was now one of the good guys (sort of) was a lot to take in, but… Maybe. Maybe Foggy could roll with it _for now_ and not antagonize Matt; that would be the opposite of helping. “Okay then. All right. I can’t tell you what to do, but… talk to me, Matt, all right? Talk to us?”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Well, that’s good then. But if there is, whenever you want…”

Matt’s face softened a little. “I know, Fogs. But it’s just – it’s new, she just got back, we’re just… seeing how it goes, all right? It’s different now, I promise. We’ve buried the past.”

Foggy doubted you could truly bury the past, but he let it slide; Matt had just looked too happy all through the morning and Foggy didn’t want to take that away from him. “Just don’t cut us out, okay? Whatever happens, the good and the bad; we’re here.”

“Aw, Fogs. I really don’t deserve you,” Matt said.

“Don’t be stupid. C’mere,” and Foggy hauled him up to give him a Nelson (™) hug. “Don’t get killed, it’s all I ask.”

“Not planning to, I swear. Not planning to.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

And Foggy would. He’d never let Matt spiral away from them again, whatever Miss Murder tried to do.

* * *

The weather was perfect for a stroll in the park. Mitch brought his sandwich there when he could, to get a break from the stress of the Bulletin. His doctor had said he should be nicer to his heart, and Mitch guessed he ought to follow that advice. He was starting to think of retirement these days, of having enough good years with Lily free from job stress. And being the Bulletin’s Editor in Chief definitely wasn’t pressure-free, that he could attest to. There always was something new to investigate: corruption, vigilantism, tragedy, victory. There always was, but it also never changed.

Take this week’s hot news, for instance: Daredevil had apparently acquired a partner. There had been reports about it for two weeks, but for the first time someone had managed to take a few pictures, and the speculation about the identity and motivations of this new player was intense. It looked like it was a woman, petite but as dangerous as the Devil was; some eyewitnesses had reported tender gestures between the two but there was no other proof than their words, so it was only more speculation. They’d done some good lately although outside of the boundaries of the law, in vigilante fashion.

But he didn’t come to the park to be Mitchell Ellison, Bulletin Boss, always on the lookout for hot news; he was there on his lunch break, enjoying the spring sun and relaxing as the doc ordered. Of course, his phone buzzed in his pocket right as he was contemplating a little snooze. He considered ignoring it, but people knew not to contact him at this hour unless it was something big. He fished it out of his pocket and opened the message. It was a grainy picture of (presumably) Daredevil and partner, actually – but they were loosely holding hands, standing on a rooftop and backlit by a neon billboard. Her hair was tied up but dark strands were fluttering behind her head. Very dramatic, Mitch acknowledged. Would be lovely on the front page. _And that’s an exclusive, boss!_ Fine, it was big enough he wouldn’t yell at Jen for disturbing his moment of peace. _Good job_ , he sent back before putting his phone away again.

Well, no little sitting nap for him today; the message had thrown him out of his mellow mood. He was already thinking up headlines, op-eds, the works; so there went his break. He’d people-watch until he was done with his coffee then get back to the Bulletin offices; duty was calling. He looked around at the tired-looking man cradling his own cup of joe and the businesswoman power-walking through the park and the health nuts jogging. The occasional couple too, meeting for lunch in the middle of a busy day like he used to with Lily, back when they worked close enough to each other.

He squinted a little; he thought he recognized the guy walking on the footpath towards him, his hand in the crook of a woman’s elbow. They talked with their heads together, like conspirators or lovers; probably lovers in their case, Mitch decided.

Oh yes, now they were closer he could see the red lenses and white cane. It was Karen’s lawyer friend, Murdock. He and his partner had worked with her to take Fisk down, _twice_. Good guys, really. So he’d apparently acquired a girlfriend, a short, slim brunette with her hair done up in a high ponytail. She was wearing a red jacket over stylish black pants and she made him look a bit shabby in comparison, but it didn’t seem to bother her. They were close enough that Mitch could make out her face now, and it looked… familiar. Her high cheekbones, her red, sharp smile – the Natchios heiress. He remembered there had been a few articles speculating on her death after she’d seemingly dropped off the face of the earth a while ago, but she was definitely alive.

Mitch looked at the comfortable way Murdock was holding her elbow, how she knew to tilt her head just right when he went for a kiss on her cheek. No, they definitely were not a _new_ item. He’d have to grill Karen; she usually was much more forthcoming about gossip like that. He watched them walk past his bench, oblivious to the world around them, happy. It reminded him of the early days with Lily, it really did. He hoped they’d have it as good as he and Lily had, be as happy as they were. God knew Murdock had had his share of hardships; he deserved a break. Karen swore he could be a bit of a jerk but then again the same could be said of Mitch, so he wouldn't judge.

Hey, hadn’t Murdock been AWOL for a while, too? Mitch frowned. Karen had said something about discovering long-lost family and taking time off to reconnect, but she’d seemed a bit shifty. Mitch’s reporter soul had wanted to dig into it further, but… eh. Sometimes, you had to know when to let things be. A skill Karen herself had never really developed, he thought with a smile. She’d always been like a dog with a bone.

Just as Mitch was gearing up to dive back into the busy, stressful, and oh-so-exciting drug that was journalism, a kid’s yell made him look to the right again. A soccer ball was flying right at Murdock’s head, but he wouldn’t see it and – whoa. _Whoa_. The _blind guy_ caught it easily and sent it right back in the kid’s direction, definitely _not_ like the sightless man he was supposed to be. Sure, he could have aimed at the general area where the “Watch out!” had come from, but that precisely? No, no way. And he’d caught it rather neatly. _Too_ neatly.

Probably-Natchios laughed, which made her ponytail sway and flutter. Murdock wasn’t holding her elbow anymore, and her hand followed his arm to brush against his fingers. Her nails were the exact same crimson red as her lipstick and Murdock’s tie. Damn, she was color-coordinating with her boyfriend. Not that he could appreciate it; he was supposed to be blind, right? In spite of his suspiciously good reflexes. Mitch squinted at the way their hands were touching, barely holding on as they talked.

No.

No, no way.

But Karen had admitted she knew Daredevil’s identity, and he’d been seen with a petite, black-haired woman who wore red and black before; it had been right around the time the Punisher had first appeared. No one had brought back proof back then, but Mitch remembered the rumors. And Daredevil hadn’t been seen for a few months roughly when Murdock had been (allegedly) away from New York, right?

But he was blind. A blind guy wouldn’t be able to do what the Devil did, and no one would fake being blind, not to the extent of regularly facing discrimination, making their studies and their job that much more complicated when people forgot the need for Braille transcripts, just… no, it couldn't be. Could it? Could _he_?

Mitch watched them share a quick kiss then resume their walk, his hand back on her elbow. They looked happy. Damn, they looked happy, and Mitch knew then he wouldn’t check to see if the dates coincided. He’d let them be, for now.

+1

“Hey, Mahoney!”

Brett sighed. The captain had conveniently forgotten he should be off the clock right now. He was only staying late so he wouldn’t bring work back home, not to get roped into _more_ work. “Sir?”

“You’re chummy with the Daredevil guy, right?”

“I’ve met him, captain.”

“Good, so he likes you.” Brett wouldn’t go as far as _like_ , unless Mr. Devil punched everyone in the face when he first met them. “I read that article about him teaming up with a woman; I want to know more about that. We can’t have all those vigilantes running around, Mahoney. We’re here to uphold the law!”

“They’ve helped before, sir.”

“Yes, well. That woman is new and I want your assessment. Is she going to work with us like your buddy does? Is she going to kill our fellow citizens in a street fight, Punisher-style?” Brett shrugged. How was he supposed to know? “Hey, you know Castle too, right?”

“I arrested him, sir.” Twice. And then he saved Brett’s life, the asshole.

“See? You’re good with those people. Go on, I’ll want your report next week on my desk, all right? Then we’ll see if we make catching her a priority or not.”

Brett already knew they wouldn't; they were understaffed and he doubted Daredevil & Partner would become a danger to the city. But, of course, he couldn’t say that; so he said, “Yes, sir,” and left the precinct.

He stopped at his favorite dim sum place before going home, and he chatted a bit with Mrs. Lee as he often did while she prepared his order.

“You’re too skinny,” she started. It was her usual opening gambit, their little ritual of sorts.

He then usually replied something to please her. This time he went with, “Look, I’m coming here, I’m eating well.”

She harrumphed. “Yes, yes, you do. But maybe you should go to the gym too, yes? Lift some weights, become a big lad.”

“Hey, I exercise!” Sometimes.

“You are police, you have to be strong.” She slipped an extra dumpling into his order then pointed at a flyer taped to the old cash register. “See, there will be a gym here again! You go, you sign up. Become big and strong.”

Brett nodded, smiled, and paid. “I’ll look it up, Mrs. Lee.”

She seemed satisfied with that, and he left her shop. Someone must have bought Fogwell’s if it was reopening. Not that he was considering signing up, but the place had been derelict for quite a while now and the neighborhood missed it. It used to be big, Brett remembered his father taking him a few times to watch some boxing. He hoped it would get some of its old glory back.

Walking back to his car, he heard a woman laugh right above him. Brett looked up and, sure enough, two people were running on a roof ledge like falls were things that happened to other people.

“Hey!” Brett yelled. But, of course, they ignored him and sped away.

Shit. He should follow them, right? Or at least pretend to. He threw his food in the car, got his gun out, and ran in the direction he’d last seen them. He was pretty sure it was Daredevil and the mysterious partner. He heard a fire escape rattle not too far from him, then the thud of someone jumping on a plastic container – probably a dumpster – and followed the noises until he reached… Fogwell’s, actually. Right, if there had been a flyer in Mrs Lee’s shop it was because it was nearby.

Brett got closer to the gym and found the broken door. It was still dark inside, but he heard voices in there. He tried to think about what he wanted to do here: holding them at gunpoint didn’t seem like a great option, but what else was he supposed to do? He was a cop, they’d just broken into someone else’s property and were doing God knew what in there… but he didn’t want to arrest them either. Or, at least, not yet.

He stayed for a while at the door, listening for sounds inside, for clues to what was happening. After a while, he heard the distinctive thumps of fists on the heavy bag, then voices. He recognized the woman’s from a few minutes earlier, and the man’s… it wasn’t Daredevil’s usual gravelly attempt at disguising his identity, and it was vaguely familiar although he couldn't quite pinpoint it. Well, the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen must be a local, maybe someone he’d met before. The thought was vaguely disquieting. He was a detective, for god’s sake; he was supposed to find out things.

Right.

His eyes were as used to the dark as they’d ever be now, so he pushed the door and walked in. Brett first found the cloth mask, then the ropes on the floor, then heavy combat boots. It _was_ Daredevil. He moved in a little further and saw them, two lithe figures sparring on the ring. They were both fast and agile, and while not trying to hurt each other they were clearly on a level way above anything Brett had seen before. He watched them for a while, knowing he wouldn't get that many opportunities to see fighters that good simply training without high stakes, without even keeping score, before clearing his throat.

“You’re not too stealthy, are you? Could follow you two right to this place.”

The woman turned her head to face him, not surprised at all by his presence. “Hello, Detective. Neither are you. Enjoying the show?” She wasn’t American, that he could tell from her accent.

“I didn’t come for a show, ma’am. Can’t see much anyway, what with the lights being off.”

“There’s enough for us,” she said. Well, they must be used to operating in the light of distant or broken streetlamps.

“Not enough for me.” Brett couldn't see their faces, the big window that opened on the street was right behind them. “Look, you’re intruding on private property. I’m supposed to arrest you.”

She laughed. “But are you going to?”

The man kept silent, but he caught her arm and shook his head. _Don’t antagonize the cop_ , Brett guessed.

He really, _really_ didn’t want to arrest them. “You could leave, save us all the hassle,” he said.

“Well, I don’t have to. _I_ bought this gym. It’s _my_ property, Detective.”

“And I’m supposed to just take your word on it?” Brett wasn’t buying it. Not yet, anyway.

“Call my lawyer.” The boyfriend groaned. “What? Not a good answer?”

Daredevil gave the most put-upon sigh Brett had ever heard and Brett almost smiled. “You…” She gave Daredevil a shove, he looked at her, she shoved him again. “Fine,” he said. Then he jumped down from the ring and walked to Brett. Shit.

“What are you doing?”

The Devil stopped. “I’m her lawyer, Brett. The deeds are signed, everything as legal as can be.”

“What…” The lights turned on and Brett blinked. _She_ was standing by the door, a hand on the switch, and the guy in front of him was _Matt fucking Murdock_.

Daredevil was… “Fuck me,” Brett said.

“Um. Hi?”

“Matthew, don’t just stand there. Come on, introduce us!”

And that was how Brett knew he’d just stepped into a new, parallel reality. He found himself shaking a Greek heiress’ red-tipped hand while a blind ninja mumbled legalese to convince him not to arrest them, then having to talk down said ninja and promise him that no, he wasn’t going to sic the entire NYPD on them. Well, not yet, at least.

Not _ever_ , really: Foggy would never forgive him and the Nelson clan would wage a war against the Mahoneys and that couldn't end well. Daredevil, his red-loving civilian identity and his slightly scary-looking girlfriend were safe, for now.

Because, to Brett’s horror, life sometimes was stranger than fiction.


End file.
